A Dimension Aside
by SSJL
Summary: B/B meet in a world where the professional "line" isn't yet a factor. AU. COMPLETE.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: Ya so…I wrote an AU story. I can't tell you why. I actually find the whole thing rather silly. But it poured out the way that some other stories don't seem to do these days, and I couldn't deny it. So if you like your fic canon-accurate…this one might not be for you.**

**For this, we're assuming Brennan and Booth are meeting for the first time when Brennan comes back from Guatemala in Season 1…completely outside the context of their work. Because aren't we just a little curious at what would happen if there was no professional "line" there?**

**Well. I suppose I was.:-)**

**Thanks to ****lizook12**** for the lookover and comfortingks of my insecurities. Also, any complaints about this fic should be directed to ****shipperatheart****, who says I shouldn't worry about what other people think.;-)**

**--**

She observed the atmosphere from her barstool; the oppressive crowd, the throbbing music, the overly-loud voices and laughter of intoxicated patrons, the smell of liquor and the sticky feel of the bar top. It was all interesting from an anthropological perspective, and disorienting from a social one. She couldn't get any further from her months in Guatemala if she tried.

"What do they drink over there?" her friend shouted in her ear, practically pressed up against her for lack of space by the bar.

"Where I was? They don't," she replied, earning a dramatic sigh from Angela. The dark-haired woman forced her way between Brennan and the reveler next to her, leaning over the bar to attract the bartender with her generous cleavage.

"Two glasses of Venado."

She gave Ange a confused look while the glasses of Guatemalan brandy were being poured. "Why did you ask me if you already knew?"

"Just drink, Sweetie. And loosen up."

Truth be told, she likely didn't need this latest intoxicant; she had already imbibed several drinks' worth of hard liquor, the first purchased when they first arrived and all the rest gifts from hopeful men surrounding them. Men whose requests to dance she promptly vetoed in favor of maintaining her seat at the bar, much to Ange's chagrin. "I'm loose enough. I just don't feel much like dancing."

"And out of _all _these guys, you don't see anyone you find even remotely attractive?" Her friend shook her head. "You aren't still hung up on Peter, are you?"

Brennan wrinkled her nose distastefully, and it wasn't from the syrupy burn of the brandy. "God no. He and I were over for a long time before I even left."

"Then what?"

"Why do I have to have a man in my life?" she asked. "I'm perfectly capable on my own. And probably happier that way." It was stressful to have a conversation here, amidst all the noise, and her head gave a warning throb.

"Yeah, but you haven't had sex in months. You have to be horned up to the max."

"Eloquently put," she said dryly, only the "t" was lost in a tipsy slur. She had to admit, the growing warmth in her belly wasn't entirely unpleasant, and while her increasingly muddled thoughts bothered the academic in her, it was a bit of a relief to let down her guard a little bit. After two months examining the remains of genocide victims and an anticlimactic but still disheartening break-up, at least part of her brain welcome this little break.

"At least one of us should get laid tonight," Angela muttered, sipping from her drink and scanning the room. "Since you're my best friend and I missed you, I was _rooting _for you. But since you apparently too chicken…"

"It has nothing to do with…poultry," she interrupted, getting the gist enough to be just a little annoyed. She put down her drink and slid off the stool. "I think I am going to get up…"

Angela looked at her excitedly. "To dance?" Several nearby men looked at them interestedly.

"…to go to the restroom. Save my spot, okay?"

Her friend's smile deflated. "Yeah. Go nuts, Bren."

Ignoring the disdain, she made her way through the gyrating crowd, trying to avoid being groped along the way. She wasn't dressed particularly suggestively, at least not when compared to most of the other women in this club; but she felt exposed in her small tank top, especially after months of wearing the most practical gear to protect her from the elements. Having told a little fib, she didn't head towards the restroom line at the corner of the bar, but rather towards the patio in the back.

Opening the glass door and pushing her way through a group of men standing near the entrance, she stepped into the night air welcomingly. It was a little less crowded out here, but most importantly, the air was clearer. If she leaned on the railing and peered over the awning, she could actually see the night sky. It didn't seem as huge as it had in Guatemala, where there was endless open space and a million stars.

She was glad to be back, and was fairly thrilled at the prospect of being back in her own lab, with its cutting edge equipment and her ultra-intelligent colleagues. Still, there was always a part of her that expected to come back from these expeditions feeling a little more…fulfilled. Satisfied. Not so bored.

Maybe Angela was right. Maybe she needed to let loose. Get laid. Do something different, since it was quite clear that _real _relationships weren't for her.

She had only meant to take a break for a minute then go back in to pacify her friend, but it felt so good to be outside that she lingered until she was surprised to find her bare arms covered in goosebumps. Apparently the night was chillier than she thought, and she shivered at the realization.

"Would you like my jacket?" came a voice from behind her, and she turned. It was one of the men she had pushed through to get her spot here by the railing. Had he been watching her? She scrunched up her face in annoyance.

"No." She had intended it to come out more dismissive than disdainful. But people never quite seemed to read things the way she intended. She didn't know why. She always perceived herself as being quite clear.

The man's companions snickered. "_Burn," _the one said, patting her wannabe knight in shining armor on the back. "Better luck next time, Seel."

"Sorry, thought you looked cold," he muttered, looking embarrassed at the attention his offer had gotten. "Just thought I'd be nice."

If she hadn't been just a little drunk, she probably just would have walked away. But she was bored, and feeing sorry for herself, and it loosened her lips a little. "What if I were a man? Would you be 'nice' to me then?"

Now the man's "friends" were laughing in earnest, while he looked increasingly uncomfortable. "Yeah, what if she were a dude? What would you do then?"

She shook her head at their obvious drunken glee. Getting laid seemed less and less like an attractive option.

"Look, sorry," he mumbled. "Just let it go."

Studying his discomfort…and his companions' joy in it…she for the first time felt almost bad for taking out her annoyance on him. He was handsome, which shouldn't have made a difference; but he seemed more sober than his friends, and genuinely sorry that he might have offended her. So she let him off the hook. "Can I get by?" she asked simply. "I need to get back to my friend."

They dutifully parted like the red sea, but she didn't miss the catcall that followed her right before the door closed behind her. Jesus. She'd been in places all over the world, and this one still competed for the most uncivilized.

It took another five minutes to force through the crowd and find a traumatized-looking Angela.

"Where the hell were you?" she fumed. "Don't you know it's open season here on women who are sitting by themselves? I almost got suffocated here…one guy _literally _tried to hump my leg."

"Sorry. Did you save my drink?"

"I _drank _your drink. You better have been talking to the hottest man in the universe to have left me alone so long. Were you talking to the hottest man in the universe?"

"Yeah," Brennan said absently, waving at the bartender. Her buzz was wearing off.

"Well where the hell is he then? And why aren't you making out with him?"

"It wasn't quite like that." This time, she ordered a cranberry and vodka; when it came, she sucked at the straw hard, trying to ignore Ange insistently poking her shoulder.

"It's _never _is like that," she was complaining. "That's your problem, Bren. You never just let go and have fun. You never…"

This night was _so _not fun. She gulped at her drink while her friend continued her tirade, welcoming the return of that tipsy sensation. "Do you want to do shots?"

Ange looked at her suspiciously. "Then can we dance?"

"Sure," she replied amiably, figuring after a few shots she wouldn't know whether she was dancing or standing still anyway.

They ordered Cuervo, straight up; the bartender helpfully supplied them with sugar and lemons to take the bitterness out of the experience. Two more later, the room spun a bit.

"Okay, girlfriend. Dance floor. Now."

"_Right _after I use the restroom. Promise."

"That's what you said last time!" Angela wailed.

"But this time I mean it." And she did; she was too buzzed now to lie effectively. Not that she lied very effectively otherwise.

The club felt even more oppressive now; it felt even more difficult to find her way through the smoke and bodies. Every step she took, it felt that she was in someone's way, especially when she had to cross the dance floor. She would have made it, though, if it hadn't been for the guy who was throwing his body about the floor like he was possessed by particularly violent poltergeist. He slammed into her, barely noticing and certainly not apologizing, dancing off again while she lost her balance in a most graceless way.

She reeled backwards, arms searching for purchase and not finding it, and she realized that very soon she was going to find herself on the sticky-with-spilled-drinks club floor.

Until she found herself being hoisted back upwards, two strong arms hooking under hers from behind and lifting. They held her until she stopped wobbling on her heels, and then fell as she spun around.

"You okay?" the familiar voice asked, and she had to stop herself from rolling her eyes. _Him again._

"Yes, I'm perfectly fine," she shouted over the music, self-consciously brushing herself off even though she hadn't gotten dirty. The handsome man from outside…the one who his friends had called "Seel"…was appraising her. She was drunker now than she had been when she was outside, and she found her eyes roaming him more than she might have otherwise; his coat was off, and for the first time she saw his well-defined chest and arm muscles fitted in a snug t-shirt, and noticed his strong facial features and dark, intense eyes.

"You sure? You almost wiped out there; that jerk must have run into you pretty hard…"

She wasn't used to this kind of concern from a complete stranger, and it threw her off in a way she didn't entirely understand; annoyance flooded her. "_Yes _I'm sure. Jesus. Are you following me around just to see if I need rescued?"

His eyes narrowed and his face hardened. "What's your problem? I just came in to get another beer." He waved the empty bottle he held in his right hand. "I guess I should have just let you land on your ass then."

A flicker of contrition passed through her—he _had _only been trying to help—but her pride kept it firmly reined in. "I'm sure there are plenty of women here who'd be happy to be your project for the night. But I'm not one of them."

He seemed genuinely bowled over by her response. "My _proj-…? _You know what? Never mind. You think that just because you're the hottest woman in this bar, you can just treat people like crap? No thanks. I'm gonna go get my beer, and you can be sure I won't be bothering you for the rest of the night."

"Good. Have a pleasant evening." She repressed a shiver as he looked her up and down one last time, long and hard; it _had _to be the alcohol but it felt like she could physically _feel _his gaze tingling against her skin. When it reached her face, she felt it burning. When had it gotten so damn hot in here?

Then he shook his head, turned on his heels, and was gone towards the bar.

She stood dumbly for a few seconds, being jostled by the clubbers dancing all around her. Then she found herself again, and remembered why she had come this way for in the first place.

Returning from the restroom mostly unscathed this time, she found Angela chatting up a very built Puerto Rican gentleman.

"Bren! This is Roberto. He's going to teach us how to Salsa. Here, take another shot."

"That's great, Ange." As she tipped her head back and let the burning liquid slip down her throat, her eyes flickered up and down the bar, finding no sign of Mr. Hero.

"So find a partner and let's get dancing."

"I…" Scanning the room, there was still no sign of the tall man with the dark hair and the black t-shirt, who had promised _never _to bother her again. "I'm going to have to sit this one out, I guess."

"What?" Ange's face dipped in close. "Bren. There are _dozens _of men here who would like to dance with you."

"Yeah, but…"

Her friend's tone turned accusing. "But you won't do it, will you? You'd rather run off to foreign countries than even _think _about trying something new right here on your own home turf. You won't even _talk _to a man unless it's about fucking anthropology."

Her defenses were becoming peaked, her frustration at Angela rising. "I just talked to a man on my way to the restroom. The one from outside. We had a whole…conversation," she said, figuring that a fight counted as a conversation.

"You're a liar. You don't even try to talk to anyone. You just made that guy up."

"That's not true," she insisted. "He's right over th-…" Her words died as she finally saw "Seel" standing against the wall, far too close to a smiling bimbo in a mini-skirt.

"That's him? Well," smirked Ange, "it looks like you missed your chance then, huh? Because you don't even try."

She shouldn't drink this much. It was making her annoyed and bold and stupid, and those three were a _bad _combination for her. "You want me to try? Do you? Just watch. I'll _show _you trying."

Leaving a shocked Angela in her wake, she marched up to him resolutely, tequila lending an artificial confidence to every step. The bimbo was laughing heartily at something he was saying, touching his bicep, and he didn't recognize Brennan was there until she was right beside him and tapping his shoulder.

His eyebrows rose in recognition. "You."

"Can I talk to you for a second?"

The bimbo's face was displeased, and her hand tightened on her arm…a last-ditch effort at possession.

"Seel" looked at her with suspicious eyes. "I thought you didn't want me bothering you for the rest of the night."

"You aren't." She stole a glance at Angela, who was against the opposite wall watching the exchange doubtfully, then turned her attention back to the man in front of her. "Please?" On impulse, she reached out and took hold of his fingers that were tucked under his crossed arms.

The bimbo's hand fell away. "Seel" looked down at where his fingers touched Brennan's, with not just a little surprise. Then he looked back up and met her eyes.

"Excuse me," he said to the bimbo, whose lips tightened immediately. Then he allowed himself to be pulled to the corner, which was no less loud, but just a little less crowded.

"You're one confusing lady, you know that?" He ran one hand through his dark hair. "You tell me to stay away, then…"

He didn't have a chance to finish his thought. Matching him in height with her heels on, she leaned forward, pressing her lips on his hungrily and without elegance. Her head was positively swimming, heart pounding, and the only thing she could think was _he doesn't taste drunk at all_.

His mouth might have opened only out of surprise, but that didn't stop her from thrusting her tongue inside, now feeling his taste over and above at least five different liquors. And she nearly expected him to push her away right then, tell her she was crazy and drunk and to be totally honest, he would have been right.

But…he didn't.

His arms…the ones that had saved her so easily from her near-pratfall earlier…were suddenly around her, crushing her breasts to his exceptionally solid chest. His tongue not only met hers but pushed its way into _her _mouth, swirling against the sensitive pink flesh, lips both soft and firm pulling back ever so often to nip at hers. Every tiny suck and nibble and touch and made each cell in her body feel like it was _vibrating, _and for the first time of the night she was grateful for the pounding music because it at least disguised the fact that she was whimpering now.

He spun her, pressing her back into the corner, holding her in place with his chest and hips. She could feel him, _so _easily, hot and hard through his jeans and her pants, and she had _never _been this close to a man that she wasn't planning on fucking within oh, maybe three minutes.

Her hands latched on his ass. If she was experiencing conscious thought, she might have giggled at the thought of Angela across the room, watching this spectacle with her mouth agape.

But…she wasn't.

As she pulled at his hips and thrust her pelvis out to meet him, he dragged his mouth away from hers and said raggedly in her ear, "This doesn't make you any less confusing."

She took the opportunity to suck at his throat, tasting his cologne and making him gasp audibly. She couldn't give a fuck about being confusing. She just wanted to be lost right now, in this world that was so unlike her _real _one. "Just kiss me," she told him, and he did, fingers tangling in her hair this time and pressing her face to his like he wanted to steal her breath from her, hips bumping against hers in an unsteady, yet unmistakable cadence.

His voice was barely discernable against her mouth, but she understood. "I want to take you home," he said.

And it set everything inside of her on fire. If he could make her feel this way in a public place, with all their clothes on…

The thought of what he might do privately made her feel faint.

"You don't even know my name," she gasped as one of his hands slid its way up the back of her tank top, caressing her bare flesh.

"That's easy to fix." He was nibbling her ear now, making her quake in his arms.

"You don't know who I _am," _she gasped.

"Also easy to fix." He was playing with her bra clasp, not opening it, simply making a promise with his fingers of things to come.

A last-ditch effort. "We don't even _like _each other."

His lips and hands stilled. He pulled back, arms still around her, looking…questioning? Hurt?

_Oh God, don't stop…_

"We don't," he repeated. And…he had stopped.

"We don't have to like each other to have sex," she breathed, hoping that she didn't sound as desperate as her throbbing body made her feel.

"No." He closed his eyes tightly, then opened them with a shaky breath. "But…we should." He was visibly trying to get back control, although his fucking hard-on was _still _pressed against her…until it was gone, and she nearly sobbed at the loss. "It doesn't seem like a smart move on my part…to have sex with a drunk woman who doesn't even like me."

She opened her mouth to argue, then realized she had no argument that wouldn't make her sound like an easy fuck who indiscriminately slept with any man who would kiss her at a bar. "I…"

"So what's the story, Seel?" The drunken slur suddenly boomed over everything. "We're catching a cab. You coming home with us? Or…are you coming with somebody else?" The man in the Hawaiian shirt leered at her knowingly as her unexpected make-out partner's hands dropped away from her.

"Watch it, Peruzzi," he said warningly to the leerer. "I'll be there in a few seconds. Take it easy, okay? Go and make sure Joe doesn't puke all over himself."

"Make it snappy," his friend said good-naturedly, as he gave Brennan one last wink before stumbling away.

He turned back to her. "I've got to go."

"I heard him. I was standing right here," she told him.

"I…You…Jesus. It's been…interesting." He seemed to be searching her face for any hint that he should or shouldn't leave; he wasn't about to get it from her.

"Yeah," she whispered, sobriety pulling at her again, unwelcomingly.

He reached out, pushed a strand of hair behind her shoulder. "Just…man." He shook his head wonderingly, realizing that he had nothing coherent to say. He kissed her cheek, his lips leaving a warm, moist impression. "Goodbye," he murmured, studying her eyes for one last moment before turning around and weaving his way through the crowd to his drunken brood.

Angela was on her in a second. "What the hell was _that?" _she fairly screeched, her eyes wide as saucers. "I've been watching your little peep show for fifteen minutes. _Why _are you not going home with the hot man??"

"Wait." She was operating on autopilot as she brushed Angela aside and forced her way towards "Seel's" retreating figure. "Wait," she cried out louder.

He turned, and she didn't know whether it was hope she saw on his face or not. She met his eyes and was nearly blinded.

"Temperance," she breathed. "My name is Temperance."

And this time it was she who turned away, as she should have at the first moment, from this most improbable and illogical of encounters that had somehow made her feel more in the last fifteen minutes than she had in the last fifteen years.

--

**A/N: Oh crap, and now it's going to be a multi-chap *smacks head*. How do I get myself into these things?**


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: Awhs, you guys like this little AU flight of fancy! Good, I'm glad. I still feel a little silly...but more inspired;)**

**  
Some more for you. Keep inspiring:-*  
**

--

It was one of _those _days. There was maybe an ounce of orange juice left in the carton in the fridge. It had rained the night before, and he had stepped in a puddle on his way out to the car. Somebody had parked in his (_clearly assigned) _parking spot at the Hoover. And he had to run his passkey through no less than eight times just to get into his own fucking workplace.

Not to mention that he had the headaches to end all headaches.

By the time he made his way into the break room for the awful coffee they brewed there, he was _so _not in the mood to be clapped on the shoulder by his far-too-cheerful colleague.

"You look like shit, Seel!"

"Fuck you, Peruzzi," he muttered, fumbling with the Styrofoam cups and wondering how the _hell _his friend could go from falling down drunk one night to fresh as a daisy the next morning. It was a _talent. _One that he himself did not possess.

That's what he got for drinking on a weeknight.

"Awh, c'mon buddy. You had better luck last night than any of the rest of us." The man grinned. "But seriously, pull it together. There's a bunch of new cases come through the door this week."

Actually, that was just fine by him. Usually he felt he needed a distraction from work, but today…work itself could be a welcome distraction.

Because of last night.

It wasn't even like he was that hard up. He had been casually dating, in a fairly steady fashion. One of the women he had been spending his time with…the lovely lawyer Tessa…even seemed like good girlfriend material, and she seemed particularly receptive to that idea. That was certainly where things appeared to be heading.

And then…_her._

He had noticed her the second she walked outside. She carried herself different than the other women there, was dressed and made up more subtly, and yet she fucking seemed to _sparkle, _all on her own. And she had pushed through him and his buddies like they were mere annoying obstacles, not even looking at them. Obviously too good for this place. Obviously too good for _him._

Except…he couldn't stop thinking of ways to talk to her. _Crowded in there, huh? How are you tonight? Are you here all alone? Can I get you a drink? _It all sounded so incredibly insufficient and trite and stupid. Which didn't stop him at all from automatically responding when he saw her shiver from the cold.

Her withering look could have flash-frozen the sun.

By the time she had accused him of making her his "project," he was fairly certain that chances of _ever _making contact with her with her again…at least on purpose…had reduced to nil. She was beautiful, yes, fascinating for sure…but Seeley Booth had his pride.

His pride had taken a swift leave when she asked to speak to him. And it had happily jumped to its death when she kissed him.

Jesus. He thought he knew what it meant to want a woman. And then this one kissed him, and all his control had dissolved away. She made him stupid, she made him crazy; hell, the second her tongue was in his mouth he was ready to take her home—a complete stranger.

A complete stranger with a silken mouth and an aggressive tongue and clever, slender fingers that roamed his ass encouragingly while he practically dry-humped her in the corner of a loud, smoky club…

Okay. He had to stop thinking about it. Now he was in the break-room with a half-hard-on, which was the _last _thing he needed on this shitty day.

Shaking off the thoughts and willing away his erection, he took his mug of weak coffee and maneuvered his way through the hallways of the Hoover, taking a moment to poke his head in the offices of some of his buddies (some of who, satisfyingly, looked as crappy as _he _felt) to say hi. He passed the administrative assistant for their department, Alex, who seemed more interested in the book he was reading than actually answering the phone.

"Better not let the Big Man see you do that," Booth told him, giving him a slap on the shoulder as he walked by.

"Not on the clock yet, bro," muttered the younger man, making Booth shake his head. Kids.

His office provided blessed sanctuary for a moment; he sank into his chair with a sigh, planting his mug directly in center of his desk and contemplating it. He didn't typically subscribe to any of that new-agey crap, but at the moment he wished he knew more ways to center himself. He needed zen. Inner peace. Self-control.

_Temperance._

The word floated into his consciousness with absolutely no help at all, and he almost groaned.

"Give me a fucking break," he muttered.

Seeley Booth didn't obsess over women. Family, work, on bad days gambling…but not women.

Resolutely, he snatched up a file from him inbox. Solving crime…there he would find his zen. It's what he was born to do.

Before he even got through the first paragraph, his phone rang. So much for peace and zen.

"Booth," he answered, grimacing as he took a sip of the bitter coffee at the same time.

"What are you working on, Agent?" The Big Man himself. Booth sat up a little straighter.

"The Marles trafficking case, sir."

"Well stop. And come to my office. I have about five more important homicide cases for you to choose from."

Peruzzi hadn't been joking when he said they were going to be swamped this week. The state of his potential headache wasn't improving. "Sure. I'll be right there." He paused for a second. "Can I ask, is there a reason for this sudden influx? This is…"

"A shitload," Cullen interrupted. "We've been experimenting with passing a few of our D.O.A. cases to the Jeffersonian."

He blinked. "Isn't the Jeffersonian…a museum?"

Cullen was starting to sound impatient. "Yes. And museums have dead things. And dead things in museums have people with twelve doctorates each who know how to identify them. We gave them some of our vics, and they had identities and cause of death within 48 hours."

"Wow. Yeah. Smart."

"Smart enough to get your ass down here now?"

"Yes. Sorry sir." Figuring extending the call further would only additionally annoy Cullen, he hung up this time and stood up, abandoning the now-unwanted coffee.

Hurrying out into the lobby, he found that the place was more bustling than it had been just ten minutes ago, although Alex still sitting with his feet propped up on the desk, engrossed in his book.

"Pretty sure the clock has started now, Al," he said, tapping the kid (who was actually probably midway through his twenties and should have known better) as he passed.

Alex at least had the good sense to quickly quash his vexed look and replace it with one of deference. "Sorry. It's a good book," he muttered, finally flipping it down open, spine-up, to save his page.

"It'll still be there when you leave at the end of day," Booth told him, spinning on his heels to continue his journey to Cullen's office. He had already taken three strides away when it registered, and he stopped stock-still before turning around. "Give me that."

"Give you…huh?" The kid was understandably confused as Booth swooped in and snatched the book off the desk.

"What is this?"

"It's just a book. C'mon, man, don't lose my place," Alex complained, but Booth didn't hear him anymore.

Holy shit. It was her. Her lovely, curvy body was shrouded in a blue lab coat, her look much more polished and austere, but he'd recognize her face anywhere. He snapped the book shut and pulled open the cover, eyes scanning the inner flap of the jacket.

_Dr. Temperance Brennan is the foremost expert in forensic anthropology in the United States. She resides in Washington D.C., where she devotes her knowledge and skill to identifying remains for the Jeffersonian Institute's medico-legal laboratory. Her stories incorporate her extensive experience with and passion for the use of science in police work._

He almost laughed. Flipping the book over again, he saw those ridiculously sparkling blue-green eyes. Why did it feel like they were mocking him?

"Don't you have something to do??" Alex was still complaining, and he remembered that actually, yes, he _was _supposed to be going to meet his boss. For a few moments there, he had _completely _forgotten.

He had to pull it together.

"Sorry." He fairly threw the book back, hightailing it away.

The world was conspiring against him today. He was sure of it.

And as he entered Cullen's office and saw the huge stack of files and his boss's cold eyes, he had a feeling he knew _exactly _what the universe was going to throw at him next.

--

The building was huge; he had to circle around twice before he even figured out what lot he needed to park in. And as he walked through, somehow simultaneously dazzled and overwhelmed by the shiny, sterile, _scientific _feel of the place, he didn't even know who or what he was supposed to be looking for. But he knew who he _wanted _to look for.

He saw a huge platform with a bustling surface, and figured that was his best bet. Making his way towards it, he hopped up the steps a few at a time; and promptly heard the shouts of the guards, followed by the ear-piercing shriek of the security buzzers. Everyone turned to look at him witheringly while he tried to tell the security guards that he was F.B.I., and indeed the lab's invited guest.

"I'm looking for Dr. Daniel Goodman," he told them.

They patted him down and made him show his badge and two other forms of ID.

He _hated _this place.

By the time he made it into Dr. Goodman's office, it barely mattered that the man, despite being cool, was actually quite polite to him, or that he provided him with a whole host of new information about the case he had been given to crack. God had given him a message by pairing the rude and frustrating woman at the bar, with this awful place.

STAY AWAY.

He was itching to leave as the man sat back in his seat, regarding him coolly.

"We're happy to help the F.B.I. with the work you're doing; this certainly isn't our first time working with law enforcement, but it is definitely the most high-profile we've done."

Booth forced a smile. "And we're happy to be working with you, as well." He should have known that wasn't the end of it.

"I hope you also appreciate the fact that our scientists here do _not _work for you; they are highly established in their own right, and work quite independently. If you should treat them like employees…well, I can guarantee you that your experience collaborating with us will _not _be pleasant."

_It's already not pleasant, _he brooded. But he kept his smile in place. "I'll do what I can to keep your people happy."

There was a moment of silence, before the older man burst into deep, reverberating laughter. "They aren't 'my people' any more than they are yours, Agent Booth. But…I suppose you'll find that out soon enough."

_Great. _"I guess I will." He was inching for the door. "So, I guess I'll be contacting you with information about the investigation?"

"Of course not." Dr. Goodman waved him aside. "I have more academic concerns. Have your department contact me later and we'll work out a liaison."

He had to deal with _another one _of these people?

He faked that polite smile until he stalked out. Hopefully he could arrange to have whoever he had to deal with to come to _him. _Because he certainly didn't belong here.

He almost made it to the platform before he was attacked.

Well, it wasn't so much as attack as it was being dragged. One second he was minding his own business, and the next he was being pulled into another room, the door slamming behind him as he was faced with what was becoming a very familiar set of flashing blue eyes.

"What are you doing here??" she demanded in a hushed voice, even though they were in a closed room and presumably no one could hear.

"You shouldn't just go grabbing people," he complained, rubbing the forearm that she had gripped. "What if I would have hit you?"

"I would have hit you first. Why are you here? Are you stalking me?"

He glared. Much more sober…but this was definitely the woman from the bar. "Don't flatter yourself. I'm here on business."

Her eyes widened, and it seemed this was the first time she was noticing he was dressed for work. "On business?"

Sighing, he pulled out his badge. "Agent Seeley Booth."

She stared. "F.B.I."

"Yeah. That's what it says, huh?"

He almost expected her to scowl at him; instead, she simply looked…taken aback. She bit one full lip, eyes traveling from his badge, back up to his face. "I'm…sorry. I didn't know."

"Well." He shifted uncomfortably. "Now you do. I'm working with your people on the Cleo Eller case."

"Oh." The most awkward of silences filled the room. She was wearing that same blue lab coat as she was on the back of her book jacket, her hair pulled back in a no-nonsense ponytail. But fuck if she didn't exude that same magnetism as she had when she at the bar, something beyond her confidence and bluntness and physical beauty. It scared the shit out of him and turned him on beyond belief, all at the same time.

She broke the silence by clearing her throat. "I think you should have someone else take the case."

"What!" he exclaimed. "Why, because you're embarrassed I saw you drunk?"

"No!" she replied, a little too forcefully and loudly before she looked around self-consciously and lowered her voice. "I just…don't think it would be appropriate."

"Appropriate!?" He couldn't believe her. He moved in closer, taking on the low tone that she had initiated. "Look. I'm a government agent. I'm here to solve a murder. It's all worked out already. And I'm _not _going to slink off and give up my case because the bone-lady here just happens to be the same woman that had too much Cuervo the other night and kissed me."

"It wasn't because I had too much Cuervo!" she hissed, leaning in and spitting out "Cuervo" like it was a bad word. "I was…trying to prove a point to a friend."

"Really. That was quite a point."

Her face colored visibly; he could see in nearly in slow-motion, it was so close he could see every damn freckle. Without the bar smoke this time, he could _smell _her, too…far too sweet to be in this antiseptic place. Far too sweet to be _her. _"Look…I just like being…professional here. And I readily admit that my actions last night were far from _that. _So you can see why I might be hesitant now that I know…"

"Now that you know I'm a real person? And not just some stud you groped at a bar?" He couldn't resist getting the dig in, if for no other reason than to see her skin retain that lovely pinkness it had so recently acquired. Seeing her fairly traumatized look, he instantly felt bad, and tried a different approach. "Look, this isn't exactly…_comfortable _for me, either. Last night…well, there was a lot we didn't know last night. So maybe we should just start over?" He held one hand out in the small space between them, in a conciliatory gesture. "I'm Special Agent Seeley Booth. I work for the F.B.I., and I'm here to help solve crimes with you. It's nice to meet you."

She looked down at his hand suspiciously, then back up at his face, studying him. Her nearness was almost ridiculously distracting, but he _wasn't _going to back down from this one. Because this was _his _case, _his _job, _his _pride…

_And if he did, he might never get to see her again._

No. Focus.

She seemed to consider for _forever…_before her slender, warm hand suddenly was in his. "I'm Temperance Brennan," she said softly. "I'm a forensic anthropologist. And I…"

"…study bones," he murmured, locking eyes with her. The second she touched him, he was aware of _everything…_mostly of the fact that they were in this huge room, yet only a few inches apart.

"It's nice to meet you," she said quietly, self-consciously. "Even though in reality, we already met, and.."

"Shh," he stopped her. Every moment from their far-too-brief encounter was playing on loop in his head. He remembered the hot, insistent, surprising press of her lips, followed by the intoxicating sweep of her tongue and the feel of her body in his arms. He had been ready to take her home. Hell, if she would have suggested it, he had been ready to take her into the restroom and fuck her hard in one of the filthy stalls, as disgusting as that was. He would have taken her any way he could get her.

Until she had reminded him…they didn't like each other. It was irritation at first sight. Epic dislike.

Anything but that. He would take her any way…but they had to at least care. _She _had to at least care.

"Booth," she said, trying out the name, and there was something about the way her lips formed his name, the way her voice rasped over it, that nearly set him on fire.

"Temperance," he responded hoarsely. He was going to do it. He couldn't even help himself, he was going to grab her and kiss her and shove her against the desk and just hope to God Dr. Goodman didn't pass and see and throw him off of the case so that he had no _choice _in this matter.

And then…

"Sweetie, you aren't going to believe what Hodgins found in the sneakers of the vic…" And then the voice of the brunette who had so fortuitously burst through the door died.

He didn't recognize her. But she certainly recognized _him._

"Oh. Oh. God. I'm sorry. I'm interrupting. I'm…"

"It's fine, Angela." Brennan cleared her throat. "This is Special Agent Booth. He's our F.B.I. liaison for the Cleo Eller case. Booth, this is Angela Montenegro, our forensic artist."

The pretty woman looked shocked for a second…before a huge grin broke out on her face. "Oh. That's…just classic. That's…"

"_Angela," _Brennan warned.

Angela recovered, seemed to rein in some deep-seated glee, and Booth now had no doubt that she was the "friend" who Brennan was proving a point to.

Just great.

"Hi, _Booth," _Angela said, savoring every letter. "Welcome to our lab. I hope you find us all to be accommodating to your needs."

He wished he could find this all as entertaining as Angela did. "Thanks. I'm finding you to be…something."

Angela beamed. "Well, I didn't mean to interrupt…I'll just come back later and…"

"You weren't interrupting," Brennan said, her voice rising about an octave. "Booth was just leaving."

"Awh, what a shame. Will you be back soon?"

"_Bye, _Ange." Brennan's tone was as pointed as a dagger.

"Fine, fine," the other woman muttered, as she made for the door. "You don't let me have any fun."

"And bye, Booth," she said quickly, giving him a little shove. "Let us know if you need anything else. Goodman. Let Goodman know."

"Goodbye, Temperance," he said, desperately trying to get at least one more word in.

"Don't call me Temperance," she said, before she slammed the door in both his and Angela's face.

He looked at the brunette warily.

She gave him another big smile. "Welcome to the Jeffersonian." With a wink, she was gone.

"_Welcome to hell, is more like it," _he muttered under his breath.


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: Here's some more for you from this "alternate beginning" story. The more I write it the more I sort of think they really **_**should **_**have made out before they worked together. What a delicious, tormenting memory it would have been for B/B as they go about their work. Yum.:-D**

**Thanks to lizook12 and bea-tricks for their continued support/nagface about this story. It's actually v. helpful to me.**

**--**

She was taking part in her favorite leisure activity now…piecing together ancient remains that had been specially shipped to her from Palestine…but it was getting harder and harder to ignore her best friend, who was standing in the corner with her arms crossed staring at her. Finally, she gave up trying.

"If you aren't going to be able to work until you say it, then just say it, Ange," she sighed.

Having been given permission, Angela rushed towards her excitedly, eyes sparkling. "It's fate, Bren. What are the chances that the _very _same dark, tall drink of water that you sucked face with last night shows up to work on _our case? _He has been delivered right to your doorstep."

Brennan shook her head tiredly, looking back down at the upwards of 250 bone fragments that still remained to be fit together. "While I admit that the probability of that occurrence was quite low, I can assure you that it was indeed a coincidence."

Angela shook her head. "But don't you see, that doesn't matter. The fact is, you finally _tried, _and it paid off. He's here, and he's sexy as hell, and he _wants you."_

Her eyes zeroed in on two pieces of skull fragment that, to her trained eye, looked exactly like matching puzzle pieces. She fit them together carefully. "I have to tell you the truth, Angela. I'm not even sure he wanted me _last _night. I was just aggravated by your pushing me, and he was the only man I had talked to that night, and…the alcohol caused me to behave irrationally.

She could feel her friend's eyebrow quirk, even though she was refusing to look at her at the moment. "So you're trying to tell me that, what, he kissed you back because you were a charity case?"

She stayed silent.

"Give me a break, Bren. I saw you when I walked into your office today. You two looked like you were about to eat each other."

Her face colored in remembrance of him standing so close to her, his huge hand enveloping hers as they took their tentative truce. His expressive eyes had been impossible to look away from.

"It doesn't matter. He's F.B.I.. He works with us. We're forgetting about last night, and concentrating on this new case."

Angela rolled her eyes. "You can concentrate on the new case all you want. It's not going to change the fact that you want him."

"I don't want him, Angela. I want to work."

"Yes you do."

"No, I don't," she insisted.

"Yes, you do." A grin was threatening to split her friend's face. "You want him. You want to kiss him and lick his face and tear off his clothes and suck his nipples. You want to pull his pants down and…"

Now she could barely stop the chuckle that rolled deep in her stomach. Angela was so, amazingly different from her. "Oh my God, Ange. Stop."

"But it's truuuuuue," she teased. "You want to do bad, _bad _things to him, Temperance Brennan. I know your 'dirty thoughts' face."

She tried to repress it, but the chortle finally burst out, which pleased her friend.

"You love me," she said, beaming.

"If I say I do, will you please go and prepare Cleo Eller's skull for the hologram again? I want to make a final determination on cause of death."

Angela let out a dramatic sigh. "I will. But don't think I'm just going to forget about this thing with Booth. I _watched _you two last night. I know what I saw."

Brennan's eyes went a little hazy. "You saw a mistake. Now. Cleo? Please?"

Her friend gave her a disbelieving smirk. But she finally left her in peace. Or, what passed for peace today.

She had thought she had recovered from the previous night. A couple cups of coffee and some aspirin this morning, and she felt _much _clearer than when she had woken up. And this case…it was so interesting, so _moving…_she had spent the entire morning and most of the afternoon reconstructing Cleo's skull, gleaning knowledge of her life and death through the remaining fragments. It had taken literally all of her energy and attention. But then, as she sat in her office, documenting her findings, she happened to glance up.

And she saw him.

He passed by so quickly she thought maybe she was seeing things. But it was enough to make her leap from behind her desk for a second look. And then she _knew _she wasn't seeing things. And that she was potentially in great trouble.

F.B.I. Angela was right, it _was _classic; but it wasn't nearly as entertaining as her friend seemed to think it was.

Good god the man was distracting. Even all buttoned down, acting ultra-professional; even _snapping _at her, every motion, every word, every look just served to remind her of what it felt like to be pressed against him. Kissing him. His hands had been underneath her shirt, roaming her bare skin, and she remembered the near-desperate growl that had accompanied his request to take her home. And she would have gone, too. She had been half cursing herself for opening her mouth, because if she hadn't, she had absolutely no doubt that this morning she would have woken up extremely satisfied, her curiosity and her sexual urges _more _than filled.

Then again, that would have made this afternoon's encounter even _more _awkward, if such a thing was possible.

Awkward, and highly inconvenient. She had been prepared to put every effort into erasing the memory of the irritating yet intriguing stranger she had met at the bar last night. But how was she going to forget about him if he _worked _with her?

_Relax, _she told herself. _It's not like you're going to see him every day. Or maybe even ever again. _

She instinctively frowned at the thought, then when she realized she was frowning, made a purposeful effort to smooth out her expression and shook her head. Seeley Booth was the _least _of her concerns. With all the sense of purpose she could muster, she strode to find her friend, and find out more about the mysterious death in a life cut far too short.

--

He had _finally _sprung for some decent Au Bon Pain coffee. He deserved it, dammit. Because his life was hard. _Hard._

The coffee was promptly sloshed all over his lap and the floor of the Tahoe when he slammed the brakes.

Because. Of. _Her._

He was so jolted by the mere sound of her damn _voice _that he couldn't even drive right.

"How did you get my number?" he demanded.

"Cleo wasn't killed by the blow to her head. She was stabbed. Everything else was just an attempt to disguise her identity."

"Brennan…"

"And the secondary bones we found…they weren't frog bones. They were fetal bones. She was pregnant, Booth. How's that for a motive, when you are a high-ranking political official?"

"Well I'll be damned," he said wonderingly.

"I want to go with you to interview the senator."

"What??" He resisted the urge to slam on the brakes again.

"I want to see what the bastard has to say for himself."

"Okay, there, bone-lady. There are several things wrong with that request. One, we don't have anything definitive to question the Senator with. Two, if we _did, _that's a cop's job. Third, _you _said it wouldn't be appropriate for us to work together. And…"

_And fourth, if you're next to me, there is no damn way I'm going to be able to concentrate. No way, no how._

He left that part out. "And fourth, just…no."

Her voice had that edge of defiance that he was beginning to think was reserved for him alone. "My skills extend far beyond the identification of remains. I want to be a part of this, Agent Booth. I want to see the impact of the work I've been doing."

"Since when?" he practically bellowed, before he narrowed his eyes. "You're still trying to get me to transfer this case, aren't you? I told you…"

She replied impatiently. "_No. _I just thought…never mind. I'll take care if it myself."

The line went dead.

"Dammit," he muttered under his breath. If she _wasn't _trying to get him to transfer the case, she was _certainly _making her best effort at driving him crazy. Who did she think she was, assuming she could make those kinds of decisions, could accompany him to do work that he had been specifically trained to do, _just _because she had a Ph.D.?

Of course, as proved not so long ago, Dr. Temperance Brennan did not hesitate to take what she wanted. He had the distinct memory of her tequila-and-brandy flavored lips to show for it.

Suddenly, her "I'll take care if it myself" struck anxiety into his heart.

As it should have.

He figured _that _one out a few hours later as he sat next to Brennan in Cullen's office, being screamed at while they both winced.

She had done it. She had gone to Senator Bethlehem's office, stolen his gum, and assaulted his assistant…who happened to be Cleo Eller's boyfriend. She was nothing if not thorough, when it came to turning him on, _or _wrecking his career.

That took _talent._

He was fuming as he practically dragged her out to the car by her elbow.

"I can get my own ride, Booth."

"No _way. _I'm going to make sure I see you back where you can't cause any more trouble with my own eyes. Which is the museum." He gave her a small push into the passenger side of the Tahoe and stomped over to the driver's side, seething as he started up the car and pulled out onto the road.

They rode in silence for a few moments, which was of course too good to last.

"He didn't want me to take that gum," she piped up. "He was hiding something…that much was obvious. That's what you said…it suggests his involvement."

Booth whipped his head around to snap at her. "Well you win the prize there, Doctor. Congratulations. Unfortunately, now _neither _of us are allowed anywhere _near _the center ofthis case, so that knowledge? Is _useless."_

She at least had the decency to look chastised, as she sank back into the seat and sulked. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to get you in trouble."

The tires of the car squealed, then kicked up dust as he suddenly turned the wheel sharply to jerk to a stop on the roadside. She gaped at him wide-eyed. "What are you doing?"

He ignored the question and wrenched his body to look at her. "See, I don't believe _that _for a second. Of course, you _wanted _me to get in trouble. You wanted to punish me for…hell knows what." His eyes blazed as he stared down the woman in the passenger seat. "But this is _too far, _bone lady, okay? You are messing with my _job _here."

She snorted. "What did you say to me earlier? Don't flatter yourself. This has _nothing _to do with you. I was just trying to get to the bottom of this case, which _your _people seem to be too cowardly to do…"

"_Cowardly??" _he nearly roared. "We work _every day _to put assholes like the one who killed Cleo Eller behind bars."

"Unless those assholes are senators," she taunted, and holy hell he wanted to _strangle her._

"Listen, Bones," he said in a low, warning voice now, and the derivative of his derisive name for her sliding off his tongue. "You are obviously amazing at what you do. But don't even _start _to believe you know how cops think. Because you don't know the half of it."

"But I want to know," she said, softly, and suddenly the fire in her eyes seemed to mute to a lovely glow. In a moment, she seemed to shift from infuriating to sweetly vulnerable, and the change nearly gave him whiplash.

He could hardly find words, his anger spinning aimlessly with no good place to go, because _certainly _he couldn't actually hate her when she looked like this. "This isn't the way to go about it," he forced out, now aware of just how far he had encroached on her, half-hanging over the console and so close he could feel her quickened breath on his face.

She blinked those hypnotic blue-green eyes, looking entirely innocent and entirely irresistible. "Are you going to show me how to go about it?" she asked, and he wondered if he was _ever _going to know the difference between when she is mocking him, or when she was just being her insufferably clueless self.

Either way, it was his breaking point, and he closed the distance between their faces with a near-sob.

Had it really only been a matter of a day since they had last done this? It felt like years…centuries…millennia. This time, she didn't taste like liquor, and this time, it was _her _who was surprised by the sudden clash of lips and tongues. But _just _like last time, as soon as she realized what was happening, she was enthusiastically participating, kissing him with abandon as his fingers tangled in her silky hair and _demanded _that she give him everything.

Why was he doing this? He _knew _how stupid and crazy it was, knew with the sinking certainty of a damned man that pulling her closer instead of pushing her away was making his life infinitely more complicated. And yet ridiculously, when she fumbled off her seat belt and crushed herself even closer to him, the console now feeling like the most frustrating of obstacles…it was worth it. As long as she didn't stop kissing him, it was worth _everything._

Her hands were now roaming under his jacket, and he had a sneaking suspicion that in about five seconds the buttons of his dress shirt were about to be scattered all over the floor of his car. He chose to aggressively grab her wrists before that could happen, holding them against his chest while his lips searched for that spot on her neck that he _swore _he got a whimper from that night at the bar. Finding it, he sucked at it harder, wanting to make a mark, wanting to make sure she remembered this as much as _he _did this time.

There wasn't enough space in here to do all the things he wanted to do with her, but for the life of him he couldn't even conceive of stopping long enough to drive someone more appropriate. And somewhere in the back of his lust-addled mind, he _knew _what stopping meant: it meant the return of reason, the indisputable knowledge that despite this feeling so (_perfect) _good, it was likely so very wrong. So he just kept kissing her, letting go of her wrists to explore the smooth contours of her waist, finding the hem of her perfectly pressed shirt and working his fingers up under to touch the most satiny of skin while she wriggled in delight.

Her fingers weren't idle either, and one hand was now squeezing his thigh, dangerously close to the place that had begun to pulse with want for her. He began contemplating through a foggy mind just how was going to manage to get her pants off, haul her over the console, and _finish _this one and for all, because surely if he had sex with her all this craziness would fade, and he could get back to his normal life again…

Then there was a knocking sound, and he ignored it while he plunged his tongue into her mouth again and was entranced by her sweet flavor. She moaned into him and it made his whole body feel feverish.

The knocking again, louder, and she was saying his name desperately, and somewhere through the haze he remembered that they were in a _car, _and the knocking could _not _be a good sign.

Dragging his mouth away, he turned his head, and his worst fears were confirmed. _Shit._

"Open the window, Booth," she was urging, breathlessly, and he couldn't even _believe _he was in this position.

He hit the button for the automatic window while the Metro police officer peered in.

"Sir, you realize you're on a public road and people can _see _y--…_Seel??" _

Blinking dazedly, he looked into the face of Sergeant Mike Greco. He had collaborated with Mike on a case about a year ago, and now he wondered if it was less or more humiliating to be caught in this position by someone he knew and respected.

"Hey Mike."

"I thought you were a bunch of teenagers out here, Seel. What the hell are you doing?" Mike was starting to chuckle, and Booth decided that this was definitely _more _humiliating.

"I'm sorry, we just pulled over and things got a little…out of control and we…"

"…were engaging in foreplay," Brennan helpfully provided, and he shot her a look of horror.

Now Mike was laughing in earnest and shaking his head. "Okay, okay, I've heard enough. Just…go get a hotel or something, alright man? You're gonna cause a wreck out here. Not that the passerby wouldn't enjoy the show…"

"We're leaving!" Booth snapped, starting the car again. The sound of the engine felt sudden, and he fought back his instinct to jump. "Sorry to have bothered you."

"Hey, it's the most entertaining stop I've had all day! Just…be safe."

"Yeah," he muttered, although it was feeling less and less like safe territory even existed anymore.

As he pulled back out onto the road, he and Brennan both stayed conspicuously silent for a few moments. He willed his hard-on to subside, forcing himself not to look at her because every time he did, the sight of her full, thoroughly-kissed lips and her tangled hair made his body respond. This was _pathetic._

She was the first one to speak, tentatively. "Booth?"

"I don't want to talk about it."

"But…"

"I said I don't want to talk about it!" He slammed his hands on the steering wheel. "Bones, we obviously just…can't be around each other. It's getting in the way of _everything." _

She paused, then… "Why are you calling me Bones?"

He groaned. _"That's _your main concern?"

He caught her frown at of the corner of his eye. "No. But it's my most immediate one."

Talking to her was like banging his head against a wall. "Just never mind. I'm going to drop you off at the Jeffersonian. Where you are going to _stay. _I'm going to handle this case, if Cullen ever lets me again…got it?"

Her voice was quiet. "Me taking that gum…it didn't help at all?"

Sighing, he hazarded a quick glance over at her. "I didn't say that. It was good information. But if you are going to do stuff like that, I _need _to be with you to control the situation. _I _am the cop."

"But you just said we can't be around each other."

"Bones, we're just…not very compatible people."

"A few minute ago, it felt like we were."

Damn her. When she was right, she was right. Still, he held firm. "That's not what I was talking about."

He could feel her studying him before she spoke again. "You want me, too. It isn't such a bad thing."

"Yes, yes it is. It is when I'm the person I am, and you're…_you."_

"If we had sex…it would decrease the tension. And then we could work together."

She made him want to cry in frustration. "Dammit. I'm not having sex with you to…take the edge off." Thank _God _they were at the Jeffersonian. He pulled into a spot in the parking garage and looked at her desperately, begging her silently to leave. Because it was taking willpower of steel not to just give in and take what she was offering. "_If _we were to work together…and that's a _huge _if…we'd have to respect each other. And people who respect each other don't use each other to get their rocks off."

"If 'get their rocks off' means 'relieve their sexual arousal,' I don't see why not." She tilted her head, and he wondered when such a simple gesture started to feel like the most potent seduction.

"No, you wouldn't see that. And that's the problem," he said through gritted teeth. He hit the door locks, and she glanced over at the sound of the 'pop'. "Goodbye, Bones. I'll call you if we find something out. You do the same."

She hesitated, and for a moment he was terrified she was going to refuse to leave. But then she opened the door and stepped out, and he let out a breath that could have been in relief or disappointment. She leaned her head back in.

"Don't stop looking at the senator, Booth. There could be more evidence there, if you look. You get me that evidence, and I'll make _sure _that I won't disappoint you next time."

Then she was gone, leaving behind the scent of her perfume, and the sinking knowledge that, one way or the other, he was starting to _need _her.

Maybe he always did.


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: Hai! Um. Plz note rating change. I'm way sorry to those who preferred it stayed T. But…it had to be done. It just had to. I felt too bad for them…they're already near-exploding in canon. Thank God for fic-world…**

**Thanks to lizook for her look-over and help researching this chap!  
**

--

This was the closest thing she had to a social life; sitting in the lab in the middle of the night with her colleagues, drinking moonshine brewed in Hodgins' beakers. Usually, she enjoyed this time; her co-workers were both intelligent and amusing, and some of the only people in her life that didn't seem put off by her rationality and ignorance of popular culture. But this time…

Booth had listened to her, had the Senator's mansion searched. She wasn't entirely surprised that he took her suggestion; she'd been very logical and convincing. But, she _was _pleased.

Except for the fact that they didn't get what they needed. The murder was still unsolved, Booth looked foolish for having targeted Bethlehem, and the forensic evidence they had worked so hard to build had proved useless. She hated this feeling…of failing. And she felt like she had let Booth down, too. It bothered her more than she cared to admit.

"What's up, Dr. B?" Dr. Hodgins asked. "You don't like my vintage?"

"Brennan's having man issues," Angela piped up, and Brennan shot her a death glare.

"Really?" Hodgins sounded interested.

"Yup. She liiiikes him," her friend sang, at the same time Brennan insisted, "No, not _really." _Ange looked displeased at being contradicted, but kept her mouth shut now.

"We did what we could, Dr. Brennan," Zack said, and she had the distinct impression he was trying to convince himself as well as her. "All we can do is look at the evidence at hand. If it's not enough to pinpoint the murderer…then that's the FBI's problem. Not ours."

She leaned back in her chair, sulking and unconvinced. She'd felt so _sure _that her team…and her in particular…could change the way that Booth investigated. Could make a difference. And if they did _that..._

_He would respect her._

If she were useless to him, there wasn't even a reason to work with her…or to even _see _her again. The pang that went through her at that thought was a blow to her professional pride—but it felt more than a little personal.

And now her team was blathering about Oliver's book and Albertus Magnus and science and saints and fish mongers and…

_Fish._

Somewhere through her self-pity a lone synapse fired in recognition, carried that impulse into an elaborate cognitive network until she exploded off her chair with the certainty she'd been missing.

Thompson. That bastard kept tropical fish. And where there were fish, there was diatomaceous earth. Just like the kind they'd found on Cleo Eller.

She told her team to call Booth, forgetting in her rush to tell them where she was going. This one was _hers, _and she was going to redeem herself. For her own peace of mind…

And for Booth.

--

This was possibly the worst case in his history as a field agent. It was depressing, just how many things had gone wrong. Now, he looked like jackass, and Cleo's murderer was still out there.

He shouldn't have let Bones pressure him into having the Senator's house searched. He _never _let himself be pressured. But she was so educated and intelligent and insistent and

_Beautiful_

The last descriptor floated into his inner tirade unbidden, and that pissed him off too. After _everything, _he couldn't get her off his mind. She could wreck his entire career and he'd still be making unconscious excuses to see her again. He'd still be thinking about her every night.

He was pathetic.

Tessa had called last night, lending a sympathetic ear to his stress about this case and an offer to get together for a late dinner. He had been grateful for the empathy, and hungry, too. Not to mention more than a little horny.

He turned her down. Like a fucking idiot.

He didn't know what was wrong with him. He'd really been enjoying her company; she was intelligent and beautiful, and she seemed interested in getting more serious than their casual dates. It had been the first time since his breakup with Rebecca that he had actually considered giving a full-fledged relationship another go…even though in all honestly, he hadn't been sure he was actually _over _Rebecca. That one had taken a lot out of him.

Now, he realized to his surprise that he hadn't even thought about missing Rebecca in days. And it had nothing to do with Tessa. It was because he was distracted by the most infuriating, know-it-all, _wrong for him _woman he had ever met.

Jesus, he wanted to kiss her again. Sometimes he would stare at his phone, knowing her number was in his call log from when she had phoned him. He wondered what she would say if he called her. He wondered what _he _would say if he called her.

Then he would shake it off, cursing himself and his rogue imagination. She was like an obsession that he just couldn't shake. That he should be _trying _to shake.

But it didn't seem fair to Tessa to use her as a distraction technique. And he wasn't even sure it was a technique that would _work _at this point. So he politely told her he was too busy with work and left it at that.

So now he was home brooding about his unsolved case, the blow his reputation had taken, and the woman he couldn't get off his Godforsaken mind.

He glanced towards the ignored Flyers game on his television, then towards his bedroom. It was late. He should go to bed.

But he'd probably just dream about her.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

He was saved from making the decision by his ringing phone. Confused, he reached for it, not recognizing the number on the display. "Hello?"

"Hi." The voice was unfamiliar, too. "This is Booth, right?"

"Yes," he replied carefully. "Who's this?"

"This is Angela. From the Jeffersonian? Brennan's friend?"

Oh, God. What was _this _about.

"Can you think of any reason why Bren would have hightailed it out of here, babbling about fish and telling us to call you?"

Fish? _Fuck. Ken Thompson. _"Jesus. Yes. Thanks, Angela."

"But what's going...?"

He hung up before the woman could continue, flying from his chair, snatching his coat, gun, and badge, and hightailing it to the door.

If Bones was doing what he suspected she was doing, she could be in danger. And if she got hurt…he would kill her.

--

"You don't have to walk me in, Booth. You didn't even have to drive me home. Nothing happened to me." She slammed the door of the SUV while he followed.

His ground his teeth together to keep from ranting at her. Again. "I don't trust you to stay out of trouble on your own. I'm considering sitting outside this place all night to make sure you don't leave and do anything else stupid."

"'Stupid' is not an appropriate adjective for me _or _my actions tonight," she insisted. "You haven't thanked me yet for solving the case."

He took hold of her upper arm, steering her towards her door. "Yeah, Bones, you solved the case. You also put yourself in danger, broke into a crime scene, _shot _someone…"

She'd been unlocking her door, but at his words she struck her familiar defensive posture, whirling around to face him.

"I don't even want to hear it. If I hadn't gone to Thompson's place as soon as I made that connection, he would have set all the evidence on fire. You'd have nothing, and we would have never solved the case."

He'd been holding back in the car, not quite trusting himself to say what was on his mind. Now, it became quite apparent that part of him had been waiting _all damn night _to get her in private to let her have it. "We?" He pushed her…and himself…inside her apartment. "You want in my business, Bones? You wanna be a cop? Because I'm having a hard time going _anywhere _anymore without seeing your ass in front of me."

Her eyebrows raised, and she seemed unamused. "You brought me here…you followed me in. Maybe you _want _to see my ass?"

He leaned in, chest nearly brushing her crossed arms. "You went to confront a suspect without _any _police protection. And you _shot _him. You're _not a cop, _you got that?" His face took a chance on another inch, eyes boring into hers. "So stay out of my business."

Eyes flashing, she didn't back down for a moment. "You're angry because I figured out Ken Thompson's involvement before you did. That's _all _this is about."

"No. _This _is about you always being there. Since the night we met you won't leave me alone."

"I was enjoying the thought of being alone _now _until you came in and _ruined _it," she huffed, turning on her heels and stomping down the hall. "You can let yourself out."

He watched her dumbly for a moment before blindly reacting, following her and shouting louder than he had to. "Not until you promise to back off."

"Back off?" She spun to face him in the hallway. "You should be thanking me, Booth. You should be _begging _me to help you from now on. And I should be kicking your ass out of _my apartment _so I can go to bed."

"And you're _not. _Why is that, Bones? _Why?"_

Now she just wanted to shut his far-too-talented mouth, because _his _frustration in not knowing what he wanted or why he wanted it was starting to make _her _doubt, and that pissed her off. She hissed, eyes burning straight into his. "Your questions are boring me, Booth. Now either fuck me, or leave."

As soon as the words slipped from her lips, she was shocked at her own brazenness. It wasn't what she had intended to say, certainly, and from the look on his face, he hadn't expected it either. But the moment it was out in the world, his nostrils flared and for the first time she felt very nearly frightened. Not of him.

But at the sparks that arced between them, dangerous and uncontrolled.

"Fuck you," he whispered, and it was both an insult and a choice.

And then they caught fire.

It wasn't the first time he'd held her against a wall, hands all over her while he kissed her roughly; but it was the first time in private, the first time without the likelihood of interruption, and God if it didn't feel brand new and familiar all at the same time. His lips were practically bruising, and she ate it up as if she were starving for it.

To be fair, she _was _starving for it.

Somewhere in the back of her lust-blurred mind, she realized he didn't know where her bedroom was, and despite her desperation she didn't want this to happen in her hallway. Later it would surprise her, how much she cared how this happened; now, she merely used her hips to push of the wall and reel them in the direction of her room, mouths refusing to separate and hands groping freely. The threadbare control they'd been maintaining was beyond frayed, and abandoned in a flurry of greedy hands and shedding clothes.

It took seconds to get to the bed, but in that time their pants are unbuttoned, his now half-way down his hips, hers abandoned for a moment in favor of forcing her shirt up and off. The accoutrements of her bra and jewelry were suddenly cumbersome, preventing full access of skin-on-skin, preventing the unobstructed rapture of his hands all over her.

His first words were an apology right before he tore off her necklace, the beads rolling off her body and onto the bed and floor while his face buried into her now-exposed cleavage. "_I'm sorry…I don't know why I can't stop…"_

She didn't want his apologies; she wanted him naked, so she ignored the pleading sound of his voice and tugged at his shirt. She'd spent the past few nights picturing him naked, but now the need to have him against her outweighed her desire to _see _him.

Their bodies finally pressed together flesh-to-flesh, her typically-rational mind raced with impulses and emotions. Despite everything she had imagined, dreamed, hoped, fantasized…it all felt so incredibly unexpected, unknown. She was really going to do this. _They _were going to do this.

With the last vestiges of cognition, she ripped open her nightstand drawer, fumbling for a condom with trembling hands, trying to remember how to open the package and make the damn thing work while he nipped at her flesh. Finally, she gave up, throwing the thing at him and ordering _"Do it."_

Her deflection worked; in the time it took him to realize what she'd asked and follow through with the request, she managed the volition to flip to her knees, catching hold of the posts on her headboard and thrusting her ass in the air as if she were in heat.

Despite the emotion that had flared between them when they started this, her position helped him remember his anger, his _craziness _at her and he near-snarled while he gripped at the softness of her hips, fingers making indentations in the pale, pliant flesh. Her returning growl encouraged him.

"Fuck me, Booth. Isn't that what this is about? What it's _always _been about?" she panted.

"_No," _he swore, before impaling her anyway.

He worried he'd pass out in that moment; things seemed blurry for a moment as his system was shocked by her heat, her tightness, her…_her. _No relief, just more need. Just more hot desire.

Then she thrust back against him, taking him fully, and he pulled his shit together because there was no _way _he was going to disappoint her. He was going to make her come so hard. He was going to make her see… just what she did to him.

Her grip on the headboard turned white-knuckled and her head dropped as he began to thrust in earnest, a litany of "_Oh God's" _and "_oh fuck's" _falling from her lips while she slammed back against him. From his position, he could see only the bare expanse of her back and shoulders and a damp mass of auburn hair and it _killed him _not to be able to see her eyes, her face. She wouldn't take it from him, the gratification of her reactions. The knowledge that she was being affected just as much as he was.

She squealed in indignation as he pulled out of her, having been denied enough thorough pounding to achieve climax. "Bastard," she cursed, ass pressing back, trying to bring him back inside her, trying to find her release.

Undaunted, he pulled her down and turned her quickly, her hands slipping from the rails as she was moved face-up. The sudden flip surprised the breath from her; her mouth was opened to again protest but only a gasp came out. His blackened eyes stilled her and the sex was nearly forgotten as his full intensity was revealed; huge and hard and masculine and all desperation for her. His reentry into her body was surprisingly gentle, and _still _it made her cry out, hands flying back to grip the headboard again to brace herself against the surprising surge of emotion. It was almost too much; _more _than almost, but she couldn't bear the thought of him stopping again so she allowed herself to skate the edge of uncontrolled and chaotic.

"Why can't I give you up??" he demanded, his face looking so lost and anguished that she almost felt sorry for him.

Almost.

"_Just don't stop."_ She sounded like she was begging and she hated it, but she wasn't in charge anymore, was just a mass of tingling skin and heaving breaths and shuddering limbs, devoted only to responding to his touch, his thrusts. She'd never felt so crazy during sex, so absolutely consumed, and it might have scared her if she hadn't been so enticingly close the climax she had been building with him for days.

"I couldn't. I _can't," _he cried out, speeding up now, swooping in to swallow her moans and bridge any gap left between them. She realized in a fraction of a second that the taste of him was going to make her come now.

He felt the contractions around him while her hands released the headboard and flew around him to convulsively knead his back; while he had thought he was out of control before, there was no conceivable way to stop himself from orgasming with her. Just the _thought _of her coming, paired with the physicality of her bodily response…his climax was torn from him like his heart was, and he groaned at the force of it as he emptied, leaving them both shuddering, collapsed bodies with one shared heartbeat.

In a few moments he lifted his head weakly, and found himself immediately awash with the sweetest kisses, and it almost killed him. She was supposed to be this harsh person, someone he could dislike, someone he could push away, but here in the aftermath of what they'd done she was all gentle caresses and soft kisses and he couldn't wrap his mind around her.

"No matter what I do…always in my head…always there…" He mumbling, babbling, and embarrassingly enough _thisclose_ to crying. It wasn't any fair, just how fully she owned him, with such little effort.

"Shh. It'll be better now. For both of us," she promised, ragged breath fluttering against his neck, fingertips whispering across his chest as if learning the shape of him once more. He wanted to believe her, and might have believed her more if his body wasn't already responding (_again) _to her tender treatment. He didn't want to leave this bed, for fear she'd never touch him like this again. The pathetic truth.

He touched her face, taking a deep, calming breath as he reined back control of himself. Her eyes looked so relieved, and he knew she really, truly believed that whatever was driving them in this crazy, whirlwind cycle of frustration and longing would ebb now that they had gone to bed. "I hope," he whispered.

But he had a sinking suspicion that now the tide would only cycle faster.

--

**A/N: I heart you all. Do you heart me?**


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N: Look *points*. I iz finished it.**

**A million thanks to those who supported me with this story. I heart each and every one of you, even when I don't get the time to respond to your lovely comments individually. They mean the world to me.**

**--**

As her eyes began to flutter open, she was aware of two things: the morning light, shining brightly around the blinds and making her wince, and the heavy, tender feeling between her legs. The first reminded her that she had likely slept far too late, and the second reminded her of the likely ill-advised (but oh so _good) _activities that had given her the sensation.

Both made it a little disappointing that she woke up to experience it alone.

Moving carefully in respect of her sex-strained muscles, she sat up and blinked blearily for a moment as she sleepily surveyed the room. She wouldn't have pegged Booth as a morning-after deserter.

Not that it mattered. They'd gotten it out of their systems. They could be…_normal _now. Go their separate ways, or work together as consultants and maybe even friends. If they'd just done all this the night they met at the bar, it wouldn't have had to be so difficult.

Glancing at her nightstand, she caught sight of a yellow post-it, stuck right next to her alarm clock. Hmm. Maybe not quite a deserter after all.

_Didn't want to wake you; had to leave to get ready for the funeral. We need to talk, Bones._

Oh, that was _right. _Saturday morning. Cleo Eller's memorial service, today at 10 am. She had to get ready, too.

Throwing her blankets off, she half-hobbled to the bathroom and instinctively reached to take off her clothes before remembering she wasn't wearing any. Cursing her silliness, the turned on the shower.

The warm spray woke her up a bit, but also unfortunately left her susceptible to her own musings.

She was a bit worried about Booth's assertion that they "needed to talk." In her experience, people only said that kind of thing when they believed something was wrong, and needed to be fixed. And as far as she could tell, _nothing _was wrong anymore. They solved the case, Thompson had been arrested, their reputations were safe, and the sanctity of forensic science was intact. _And, _the problem that caused her and Booth to act like petulant children around one another had been resolved. Now that they had relieved their urges and curiosity, they could behave like the rational professionals she _knew _they could be.

A mindless swipe of the washcloth over her breasts brought back recollections of relieving those urges, and she unthinkingly slowed, allowed her fingers to trail across her nipples, paused to squeeze them. The sensitive flesh between her thighs pulsed heavily. She wondered what would have happened if the memorial wasn't today. Would he have stayed? Maybe he would have joined her in the shower, tended to her still-sensitive body there. Perhaps he would have kneeled in front of her, pressed his lips and his tongue against her center, let the spray of the shower beat her muscles into relaxation while his mouth coaxed her into another climax until she was boneless and sated.

She was surprised out of the fantasy by the increasingly-chilled water, and a little annoyed to find that somehow, the hand that was _supposed _to be cleaning herself was now dipped somewhere that had already been cleaned ten minutes ago. After her thorough satisfaction last night, she shouldn't be distracted by her urges again _already. _Scowling at herself, she removed her traitorous fingers and punched off the water.

Somewhere past the steam and last drips of the water, she heard her phone ringing. Cursing, she hopped out, grabbing her towel and dripping the whole way to the other room.

"Brennan," she said, trying to keep the irritation out of her voice while she wiped off her hand.

"Hey Sweetie, it's me. You need a ride to the funeral?"

"No, I…" Pausing, she reconsidered. "Actually, I'm running late, so that would be great. It'll make me hurry."

"Awh, didn't you sleep well?" Angela answered her own question. "Of course you didn't. You were too busy _almost getting immolated…"_

She sighed, holding the phone between her ear and shoulder while she started pulling her clothes of their hangers. "I'd appreciate it if you didn't lecture me, Ange. I got enough of that last night."

"Booth was pretty hard on you, huh?" She waited barely half a second before taking her friend's silence as an affirmative. "It's because he likes you and doesn't want you to get hurt. He has other plans for your luscious bod."

"So are you coming to get me, or what?"

Angela was used to her deflection, and didn't seem to take offense to it. "Yes, of course. I'll be there in about fifteen minutes. But we're going to have a talk in the car, okay? It's not every day you shoot someone."

Groaning, she stepped into her skirt. "Why does everyone want to have 'talks' with me?"

"Because you're so _interesting _to talk to." She could hear Angela's smile through the phone. "Catchya in a few. I'll call you from the parking lot"

Tossing the phone on her bed, she found herself a little relieved, although she couldn't immediately place why. It came to her, though, when she finished dressing and was sloppily applying her make-up--she had been almost anticipating Angela knowing, from the mere sound of her voice, that she had slept with Booth. Ridiculous, of course; people didn't _sound _different after they had sex…but her friend seemed almost preternaturally cued in to these things. And if she _had _asked_…_Brennan had no reason to lie to her.

But she also didn't know how to explain it.

She didn't know how to describe how name-calling had dissolved into sex, how an angry coupling transformed into…something else. And she _certainly _couldn't explain her behavior afterwards, what had possessed the surge of feeling that made her kiss and touch him like a lover, _cuddle _the man for Christ's sake…when it had been time to turn away from him. _Oxytocin, Temperance,_ she reminded herself. _Orgasm releases oxytocin and dopamine into the bloodstream and is responsible for feelings of affection._

But fuck, oxytocin had _never _felt like that before.

It didn't matter. Her personal life was insignificant compared to what the Eller's would be experiencing on this day. As she swiped on her lipstick, she took a deep inhale and tried to remember what was important.

--

There was no way he was going to miss the funeral; back when Cleo Eller had simply been a missing person's case, he'd become close to her parents, in tune with their grief.

Still, leaving Bones tangled naked and alone in her sheets took near-Herculean effort. Before he even opened his eyes, he knew _exactly _who was creating the warm, wonderful pressure against his chest and hips. Knowing she likely would only go along with it when she was asleep or directly post-coital, he had gathered her into his arms and buried his nose into her hair, hating himself a little bit for how much he craved this with her. He couldn't even stay mad at her when she tried to get herself killed and ruin their careers.

He'd left her a note while she slept peacefully, telling her they needed to talk. He wasn't exactly sure exactly how that conversation would go, but he hoped it would somehow steer towards the topic of him finding another liaison at the Jeffersonian, so that he and she had time and emotional energy to figure out what was going on between them. For a few days, he'd told himself that everything he was feeling for this woman…the one who had treated him so coldly, then heatedly, all in the same night…was simple lust. _Strong _lust, to be sure…but lust was a familiar creature, something he could deal with.

Whatever happened last night, though—he wasn't sure he could "deal" with it. At least, not at the same time as he could deal with work.

After going home, showering and changing into proper funeral attire, he had about ten minutes before he had to leave. He could have watched the news, made coffee.

He left instead, trying to convince himself it was to avoid the (Saturday morning?) traffic, and _not _because he was already anxious to see her again.

Halfway to the cemetery, his phone rang and he almost swerved in nervousness. Jesus. He could _not _live like this.

Fortunately or not, it was a number he recognized. "Good morning, Sir."

"You just can't seem to control your squint, can you?"'' Cullen never _was _one for small-talk.

"Sorry, Sir. She seems to have a mind of her own," he replied, not just a small pang of guilt coursing through him at just how much he probably _encouraged _that behavior…whether he had tried to or not. "I promise, I'm going to talk to her. If she works cases she'll have minimal involvement. I'll make her see…"

"Do me a favor and don't," the Director interrupted, effectively shocking the next words from Booth's mouth. "She's a pain in the ass, sure. She needs corralled. But without her, that bastard Ken Thompson would be free, and effectively burned up any chances we would have had of catching his ass. We need her. We're better cops with her."

Booth was stunned; coming from Cullen, that little speech was tantamount to a Nobel Prize nomination _and _an intent to marry. Now he felt guilty for an entirely different reason. "Sir, what if…" He took a deep breath. "What if I just can't work with her?"

"Then you're a damn fool, and I'll find somebody who can," the older man replied bluntly. "She's an asset to us, Agent Booth."

"I know that," he retorted, trying to keep the frustration from his voice. He certainly couldn't actually explain his hesitation in working with Dr. Brennan, but without that explanation, Cullen was right: He _did _sound like a fool.

He drove a little too fast the rest of the way, wondering when doing the right thing became so complicated.

Arriving at the parking lot, he immediately saw in the distance the site of Cleo's funeral. It had been a high-profile case, and the girl had many family and friends; the well-loved had large funerals. Walking the length of the dirt path towards the gravesite, he struggled to compose himself. Cleo's loved ones deserved nothing less than his total respect and attention today, no matter what sort of turmoil was going on inside his head.

As he got closer, he easily saw Bones standing with Dr. Goodman, Angela, and her other colleagues from the Jeffersonian, as well as the Ellers. The service was already starting; as he approached, he tried to stay respectfully inconspicuous, but his movements around the outskirts were easily discerned by the woman who he'd woken up with this morning; the one who had begged him to _please don't stop _while he thrust into her.

He felt hot all over as her gaze dropped to him; he forced a small smile and raised his hand in greeting. The gesture felt strange when made to the person with whom he'd fallen asleep last night…an intimacy that in moment, had felt incredibly, perfectly natural. She seemed to study him before tilting her head in invitation; _come stand with us._

It seemed strange; he didn't belong with those people. He didn't fit in. But he hadn't thought he'd fit with Bones, either, but last night they'd managed to fit just perfect.

As he fell in line with them, Dr. Goodman raised an eyebrow at him. "Agent Booth."

For a second he had an awful, irrational certainty that the older man knew _everything _about what happened last night and was patiently waiting to beat the shit out of him for compromising Brennan's virtue; perceptions that were laughable on many counts. But then Goodman turned back to the minister, listening intently, and that air of fatherly omniscience was gone. Bones' eyes seemed similarly trained ahead; he couldn't tell if she were ignoring him now, or simply being polite. When the prayer began wrapping up, she drifted away from the group, pulling a rose from the display and placing it on Cleo's coffin.

"Is the FBI going to lay charges against Brennan?" Angela asked, watching her friend concernedly.

"She only shot him in the leg. Once," the big-haired bug guy answered before Booth could, and despite the fact that he and Bones had resolved that very issue last night (had they _really _resolved it? They had discussed it), he found himself annoyed at her friends' blasé writing off of the anthropologist's missteps.

"She didn't give him a warning. She just shot him, with alcohol on her breath." He said it, even as he marveled at the emotion in her eyes as she contemplated Cleo's grave. She was a good woman. A frustrating one, a bit of a narcissistic one…but a good one, and a smart one.

"It was her first shooting," Goodman interjected. "You can't expect it to be perfect right out of the gate."

Booth wasn't going to get anywhere with them. They loved Bones. And to be entirely honest, he could see why.

Brennan's assistant piped up to add insult to injury. "How much warning did you give people before you sniped them?"

Ignoring the question of how the kid knew _that _tidbit, he fell out of the group, seeking Bones, needing to look her in the eyes and be given some sort of indication that things would be okay. When he reached her, he realized awkwardly before he even opened his mouth that she was standing in front of Cleo's father, her hand having been caught by his as she made to leave.

"You," Major Eller said, his face looking anguished as his eyes cut right through her. "You caught him, the man that killed my little girl? You shot him?"

Bones looked put on the spot, but it didn't stop her from being her always-honest self. "Yes. I did. With Booth's help, but…yes."

The man looked at her so intensely Booth was scared for a minute, had to stop himself from taking a protective step in front of her. But before he could act, the man had Bones in his arms, holding her so tightly that Booth was sure it had to hurt her. A lone tear streamed down the Major's face.

"Thank you," he whispered fiercely to her. "I'd thought I was going to die without knowing…without justice for her. Thank you."

Though startled, Brennan returned the embrace, her eyes catching Booth's over his shoulder. They were wide and awed, and it took him a moment to realize why. Temperance Brennan was used to being honored and commended with ceremonies, forewards in books, maybe a shake of the hand from a government official after she identified genocide victims in one of her digs. She was _not _used to this…the pure and very personal reaction and gratitude of the person she helped, looking in their eyes and _knowing, _beyond a shadow of a doubt, that she did something wonderful.

Major Eller released her, turning to Booth and giving him a strong handshake and look of thanks. In that moment, he was also near-overcome with appreciation for everything that had come together in the right way to allow them to solve this case and help this family.

By the time he turned away from the grieving father, Bones had already returned to her group of squints; she stood with them in a tight circle, re-immersed in her separate world of science. She was speaking very seriously to her floppy-haired assistant and the frenetic bug-guy; her artist friend Angela glanced over at Booth, back to Brennan and to Booth again, as if in wordless question. He gave her a half-smile and a nod before turning away, feeling transparent. All he wanted to do was get Bones alone, talk to her, figure out what the hell was going on with them. What they were, and what they were going to become.

He was distracted for several moments by Cleo's mother, who wanted to talk to him about the upcoming trial and what role her and her husband would play in it. By the time she let him go with a hug and kiss on the cheek, he saw that Bones had separated from her colleagues and was walking by herself across the cemetery, towards the cars.

He ran to catch up to her; she didn't turn, but slowed her steps.

"You're going to leave without talking to me?" Finally reaching her side, he glanced over at her curiously, a little hurt. Her face was made-up, but finally being so close, he swore he could see the leftover glow on her cheeks from last night; the one _he _put there, the one that remained shining pinkly this morning as he kissed her sleeping face.

She looked up to him, squinting in the sunlight. "I rode with Angela. I told her you'd drive me back. So that we could talk."

"Oh." Now that he couldn't be indignant, he was just surprised into silence; there was too much he wanted to say to her, and it sat too heavy to let the words out. "Bones…last night…"

A larger step allowed her whirl in front of him, eye-to-eye, and after he stopped himself from running straight into her he felt his stomach leap.

"Last night was very arousing and satisfying," she murmured in a husky tone that made his mouth dry.

"Yeah?" he croaked, and she nodded earnestly; God himself must have made her look away at exactly that moment because otherwise he might have kissed her right there in the middle of the cemetery.

"Back there…" She was looking towards the remaining people at the funeral site who were milling about and consoling one another. "That felt…_so _good. The Ellers…their lives will be better now that they can move on. Now that they know justice has been done. I could see it so clearly."

Both disappointed and relieved to have the moment broken, his head shook in agreement. "That's what being a cop is about, Bones."

"I get that…I mean, I understand the concept. But I've never been so involved in police work as to experience it like I have the past few days."

He liked the look on her face…that wonderment that made her appear younger and more vulnerable. It made him smile a little, and also remember just why he was so passionate about his job. "I'm glad you feel that way." And he was; he already knew that she wasn't the cold, mechanical person she sometimes seemed to be (and in some cases, he suspected she sometimes pretended to be, to keep her distance from the often-painful realm of human emotion). But seeing how much this experience had touched her…he'd finally found the thing they had in common.

The thing that united them.

She looked hesitant now, and suddenly he knew with absolute certainty where all this was headed. He wasn't sure how he _felt _about it, but…it was coming.

"We make a good team. All the other disagreements, the different ways we see the world, the…" she took a deep breath… "wanting each other. It doesn't matter, does it? Not when we achieve what we achieved today. Not when it works so well."

"You're right," he admitted, half-regretfully. "You're what we needed…the FBI. What _I _needed."

"I think I might need it too," she said softly, the heel of her boot chuffing against the ground as if embarrassed by the admission. Her gaze locked with his suddenly, pleading for an answer. "We need to work together, don't we? It's the most important thing."

And there it was. This particular case had been marked by them fighting each other every step of the way…and _still, _they'd been successful. If they put everything else aside, _really _committed themselves to working together instead of competing with each other, there was no limits to what they might achieve.

Did the importance of that supersede what they'd experienced last night? Could _anything _right now be _so _important as to force himself to not touch her again?

He followed her drifting gaze back to the Ellers, now far enough away to be mere pinpricks on the landscape of the cemetery, and he knew the answer was agonizingly, frustratingly…

_Yes._

It was the _only _thing more important than exploring what was between them.

He let out a long, burdened exhale, and she looked back at him questioningly. "You know, being a sniper I took a lot of lives. What I'd like to do before I'm done is try and catch at least that many murderers."

An amused smile crossed her face. "Please. You don't think there's some kind of cosmic balance sheet…" She must have seen the truth in his eyes, the _need _for her to accept what he was offering, because she stopped, reevaluating before speaking again. "I'd like to help you with that."

A faint smile touched the corners of his mouth, and he gave her a small nod. _Partners. That would come first. It had to._

She bit her lip softly. "I guess then…what happened at the bar, and last night…we probably shouldn't ever talk about that, huh?"

He ached to reach out and touch her porcelain skin. "Probably not," he forced out. "It can only get in the way."

She shook her head in slow assent. "Yes." A second later, almost as an afterthought, she continued. "I should tell you, though, before we never talk about it again…I'm probably not going to forget it."

He almost laughed. "Oh, Bones." He briefly, one last time, gave in to his need to touch her, reaching out and cupping her cheek and feeling the skin warm against his palm. She startled before she recovered and stared at him wide-eyed. "_You _should know…I won't mention it again. We can act like it never happened. But everything we do now…every look, every accidental touch…_all _of it is going to have this extra meaning to it now. I'm_ never _going to forget it."

She seemed to take that in before accepting it. "I know that," she whispered. "Never."

Looking into her crystalline eyes, there was a moment where he wasn't sure he could do it…let go of her, just be another of her co-workers. But something in the back of his brain told him that it would come back this. Someday, they'd know each other better, understand the dynamics of their partnership enough, and that day, they might be able to deal with all of it, their work _and _their feelings, without ruining everything. It might take months, _years _even…but they'd figure it all out then. The knowledge of inevitability helped the moment of desperate longing pass, and he let his hand drop back to his side. He had to push past this. Just for now.

"Hey, don't look so serious," he forced the joke. "You'd think you'd just been to a funeral or something." He made himself start walking again, and she followed, looking perplexed.

"We _were _just at a funeral," she reminded.

"I know. A joke, partner, it was a joke."

"Oh." She frowned, and he shook his head, already more amused and less frustrated with her.

"Hey, you want to go get lunch?" Amazingly, surprisingly, he felt lighter already. They were going to be together…not in the way he'd suspected or hoped, but…it was going to be good. He was sure of it, and he was impressed with the mental alchemy that made him know his desire for her could be sublimated into an exceptional working relationship.

"I'd rather have a drink," she said, kicking up stones on the path to the lot and glancing up at him devilishly. "I know of a _great _bar we could go to…"

"Now _that's _not funny," he groused, but content in the knowledge that someday, it probably would be. In a dimension aside.

--

**A/N: …and they lived canon-ly ever after??**

**Does that make you hate me? I hope not. Imagine if all this happened before we ever met Booth and Brennan…how differently we'd see all those little moments between them. Gawd. They'd be going nuts.**

**Let me know what you think, and to urge me to NOT write the next multi-chap that's burning a hole in my brain. I have other things I should be doing. And if you tell me how much you DON'T want to read it then maybe I'll stop obsessing about it.**

**Ha. Ha.**


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